Leaving the Wound took two days of careful navigation. Korrin's presence changed the group dynamic in unexpected ways. The general moved with military precision, constantly scanning for threats, offering tactical advice that Jiko's conscience recognized as genuinely helpful rather than manipulative.
But the weight Korrin carried was overwhelming. Jiko could sense it now with his complete conscience, could feel the thousands of Marks pressing down on the general like a physical burden. Every step Korrin took was a battle against the guilt trying to crush him.
On the second night, as they camped at the Wound's edge, Jiko approached Korrin where he sat alone, maintaining watch.
"You wanted to learn," Jiko said. "About bearing weight without being crushed."
Korrin looked up, surprise crossing his scarred face. "I didn't expect you to start so soon."
"Why wait? You're suffering now. If I can help, I should." Jiko sat beside him. "Tell me about your Marks. What do you carry?"
"Everything my soldiers did under my command. Every execution, every act of cruelty, every moment where we enforced order through fear." Korrin pulled back his sleeve, showing black Marks so densely layered they formed patterns. "Two thousand three hundred and forty-seven sins. I counted once, years ago. There are more now."
"Why take them? Why not let your soldiers bear their own guilt?"
"Because I ordered them to do it. It seemed right that I should carry the weight of my commands." Korrin's voice was quiet. "I believed suffering was atonement. That if I hurt enough, the sins would be justified."
"But they weren't," Jiko said.
"No. The hurt just made me harder. More willing to order worse things because I'd already damned myself anyway." Korrin looked at his hands. "I became the monster I was trying to atone for being."
Jiko felt his empathy responding to the general's pain, his conscience processing the moral complexity. "The first lesson is this: guilt is information, not identity. You carry weight from those actions, but the weight doesn't define you. It informs you."
"How do you separate the two?"
"By analyzing the weight. Ask: What did I do? Why did I do it? What were the consequences? What can I learn?" Jiko touched one of Korrin's Marks. "This one. What is it?"
Korrin flinched but answered. "Execution of a heretic. A woman who refused virtue-forcing. I ordered her killed as an example."
"Why?"
"To maintain order. To show that disobedience had consequences."
"Did it work?"
"Yes. For a time. Then someone else rebelled, and I had to kill them too. And again. And again." Korrin's voice cracked. "I was creating the thing I was trying to prevent."
"That's the information. The weight is telling you the strategy was flawed, that violence creates more violence." Jiko released the Mark. "But it doesn't tell you that you're evil or irredeemable. Just that you made mistakes and can choose differently now."
"That's it? That's your revolutionary technique?" Korrin sounded almost disappointed. "Just reframe guilt as data?"
"It's harder than it sounds. Your first instinct will be to feel crushed by the weight. To believe the guilt makes you worthless." Jiko met his eyes. "But you have to consciously separate the feeling from the analysis. Feel the guilt, acknowledge it, then step back and ask what it's teaching you."
"And if it's teaching me that I'm a monster?"
"Then you ask: Am I still making the same choices? Am I learning from the mistakes? Am I becoming better?" Jiko paused. "Monsters don't question themselves. They don't seek to change. The fact that you're here, asking to learn, means you're not what your guilt tells you you are."
Korrin was quiet for a long time. Then: "Can you show me? Take one of my Marks and show me how you'd process it?"
"If you're willing."
Korrin extended his arm. "Any of them. Choose one and take it."
Jiko focused on a Mark near Korrin's wrist. It was older than most, faded but still present. He reached out with his conscience and pulled.
The guilt flowed into him, and with it came the memory. A village burning. Korrin had ordered it destroyed for harboring heretics. Dozens dead, including children. The smell of smoke and screaming.
Jiko's conscience immediately began processing. The act was horrific, the consequences terrible. Korrin had followed orders without questioning, had valued obedience over compassion. That was the moral failure.
But analyzing further: Korrin had been twenty-two, newly promoted, desperate to prove himself worthy. He'd believed the propaganda about heretics being dangerous, about the necessity of harsh measures. He'd been indoctrinated, not evil.
The guilt was valid. The action had caused suffering. But Korrin wasn't defined by that action unless he chose to repeat it.
Jiko released the Mark back to Korrin and explained his analysis. "You did something terrible. But you were young, indoctrinated, following orders you didn't question. The guilt reminds you to question orders now, to value compassion over obedience. That's its purpose. Not to crush you but to teach you."
Korrin was staring at his arm where the Mark had briefly vanished and returned. "You felt all that? Analyzed it that quickly?"
"My conscious conscience lets me experience guilt and examine it simultaneously. It's not easy, but it's functional." Jiko stood. "Practice that analysis on your other Marks. Not all at once—that would overwhelm anyone. But one at a time, slowly, learning from each."
"And if the weight becomes too much?"
"Then you ask for help. Distribute some Marks to carriers who can handle them, or to me if necessary. Bearing weight doesn't mean bearing it alone." Jiko offered his hand. "You don't have to suffer to atone. You just have to change."
Korrin took his hand and stood. "Thank you. I don't know if I can do this, but I'll try."
"That's all anyone can do."
They returned to the main camp where the others were preparing to sleep. The Cartographer had been watching the exchange, his expression thoughtful.
"You're teaching him," the old man said quietly. "Sharing the technique you've developed."
"He asked. I had the knowledge. Refusing would have been inefficient." Jiko paused. "And cruel. My conscience tells me that now."
"Your conscience is making you kinder. More willing to help even when it's not immediately beneficial." The Cartographer smiled. "You're becoming a better person than I ever imagined."
"I'm becoming a person. Whether that's better remains to be seen." Jiko looked at where Korrin sat, examining his Marks with new understanding. "But at least I'm trying."
They reached the Wound's edge by midday the next day, emerging into normal reality with relief. The instability had been wearing on everyone, even Syla who seemed diminished outside her natural environment.
"Where to now?" Marik asked. "We can't exactly return to the Forgetting Depths. The Archive knows we left with Choir Saints and came back with the Iron Testimony's general. That's going to raise questions."
"We need a neutral location," Ven said. "Somewhere we can regroup, plan, study the information Jiko gathered from the Engine."
"I know a place," Korrin said. "The Memory Dens. Black market information hubs scattered across the Dominions. Neutral ground, no faction control, perfect for people who want to avoid attention."
"You trust black markets?" the Cartographer asked skeptically.
"I used to raid them. Now I'm a fugitive from my own organization. Trust isn't the issue—necessity is." Korrin pulled out a map. "The closest Den is three days northeast. It's run by the Broker Collective, information traders who sell to anyone with Shards to spend."
"And they won't report us to the Testimony or Sanctum?"
"They might. But they'd report to us too if either faction came looking. Information neutrality is their business model." Korrin traced the route. "It's risky, but less risky than staying exposed."
"I've used the Dens before," Ven confirmed. "Korrin's right. They're mercenary but reliable. If we pay well, they'll protect our privacy."
"Then we go there," Jiko decided. His conscience weighed the risks and benefits, finding the balance acceptable. "We need time to study, plan, and prepare. The Dens can provide that."
They traveled northeast, moving through territories that showed increasing signs of Dominion control. Guard posts, patrol routes, settlements with actual walls and governance. The wasteland was giving way to civilization, such as it was.
Jiko found the change unsettling. He'd spent months in the wild places, among the desperate and the abandoned. Seeing organized society again reminded him that most people lived under the system he wanted to change. They had adapted, found ways to survive the moral weight economy.
Would they welcome change? Or resist it?
"Nervous?" Syla asked, materializing beside him as they walked.
"Uncertain. I'm about to attempt something unprecedented. Reprogram reality's rules. That affects everyone, whether they want it or not."
"Just like Dr. Seo," Syla observed. "She didn't ask humanity if they wanted the Severance. She just imposed it."
"I know. That's what worries me." Jiko looked at her. "How do I avoid making her mistakes?"
"You probably can't. Changing systems always harms someone. The question is whether the harm is worth the benefit." Syla's cracked face showed something like sympathy. "But at least you're asking. That puts you ahead of most would-be revolutionaries."
They reached the Memory Den on the evening of the third day. It was built into a canyon, hidden from casual observation, accessible only through narrow passages that could be easily defended. Guards checked them at multiple checkpoints, scanning for Marks and threat levels.
Inside, the Den was a labyrinth of chambers carved into the canyon walls. Thousands of memory-Shards lined the corridors, organized by category, quality, and price. Information brokers worked from alcoves, trading secrets and knowledge to anyone who could pay.
At the Den's heart was the Broker Collective's central chamber. Seven figures sat around a circular table, faces hidden behind masks made of crystallized memories. They represented the Den's leadership, the ones who decided what information was bought, sold, or protected.
"Welcome," the central Broker said, voice distorted through their mask. "We don't get many interesting visitors lately. But you..." They gestured at the group. "You're very interesting indeed. A blank with a complete conscience, an Echo of shame, the Iron Testimony's fallen general, and the creator who started it all. What brings such a diverse group to our neutral ground?"
"Privacy," the Cartographer said. "And access to information. We're willing to pay."
"Of course you are. But first, we need to know: who are you hiding from?"
"Everyone," Korrin said bluntly. "The Testimony wants me dead. The Sanctum wants the blank. And we all want time to work without being hunted."
"Time for what?"
Jiko stepped forward. "To fix the Severance. To reprogram the Empathy Engine and remove the weaponization of moral weight."
Silence. The seven Brokers stared at him through their masks.
"That's..." one Broker started.
"Impossible," another finished.
"Ambitious," a third added.
"Insane," said a fourth.
"Fascinating," the central Broker concluded. "You're either the most delusional people we've ever met, or you're about to change the world. Either way, that information is valuable."
"We need sanctuary first," Ven said. "Then access to your archives. Technical information about the Empathy Engine, Dr. Seo's original research, anything that can help us understand how to modify it safely."
"That will cost you. Significantly." The central Broker leaned forward. "What can you offer?"
"I can offer memories of the Engine itself," Jiko said. "Direct experience of its chamber, its defenses, its programming structure. Information no one else has."
"And I can offer Testimony tactical data," Korrin added. "Everything I know about their operations, strategies, weaknesses."
"We can offer the Echo's perspective on the Severance," Syla said. "How supernatural entities experience the broken reality."
The Brokers conferred quietly. Finally, the central one spoke: "Acceptable. We'll provide sanctuary, archives access, and secrecy. In exchange, we want full memory extraction of everything you've offered, plus exclusive rights to any information generated during your research."
"Exclusive?" the Cartographer objected. "That could be used against us."
"We're information brokers, not faction agents. We sell to everyone equally, which means no one has advantage. That's neutrality." The central Broker stood. "Take the deal or leave. You won't find better terms elsewhere."
Jiko felt his conscience weighing the decision. Giving the Brokers this information was risky. But they needed the sanctuary and archives. And the Brokers' neutrality meant the information would be available to everyone, not hoarded by one faction.
"We accept," he said.
"Excellent." The Brokers stood as one. "Then welcome to the Memory Den. Your sanctuary begins now."
They were given chambers in the Den's depths, carved into the canyon walls with surprising comfort. Beds, running water, even windows that showed the canyon's beauty. It was the most security they'd had in months.
That evening, they gathered in a communal space to plan their next steps. The Cartographer had already begun studying the Den's archives, pulling information about pre-Severance programming and reality manipulation. Ven was mapping information networks, identifying who they'd need to convince for the changes to be accepted. Marik was coordinating logistics, figuring out supply chains and resource needs.
Korrin sat slightly apart, still processing his conversation with Jiko. The general was examining his Marks one by one, analyzing them as Jiko had taught. It was slow work, painful work, but he was committed.
And Syla watched them all with her too-large eyes, occasionally offering insights about Echo behavior or Wound mechanics that proved surprisingly helpful.
"We're really doing this," Ven said, looking at the group. "Attempting to reprogram reality itself."
"Dr. Seo did it once," the Cartographer replied. "We have better information than she did, more understanding of the consequences, and a team with diverse expertise. If anyone can do this, it's us."
"And if we fail?" Marik asked.
"Then we fail having tried to make things better. That's worth something." Jiko felt his conscience affirming the decision. "But we won't fail. Not if we're careful, thorough, and willing to learn from Dr. Seo's mistakes."
"So where do we start?" Korrin asked.
The Cartographer spread schematics across the table. "We start by understanding the Engine completely. Every circuit, every process, every subroutine. Then we identify what needs to change. Then we test in simulations. Only after we're absolutely certain do we attempt actual reprogramming."
"That could take years," Ven said.
"Better years of preparation than one moment of catastrophic failure." The old man looked at each of them. "We're attempting something unprecedented. We need to be patient, thorough, and willing to abandon the project if it proves too dangerous."
"Agreed," Jiko said. His conscience and analytical mind were unified on this. "We do this right, or we don't do it at all."
They worked late into the night, each contributing their expertise. The Cartographer provided technical knowledge. Ven offered strategic planning. Marik supplied resource management. Korrin shared tactical thinking. Syla gave supernatural perspectives. And Jiko brought his unique ability to see morality as both weight and data.
It was the beginning of something massive. A revolution not of violence but of understanding, of carefully changing the rules that governed reality itself.
As they worked, Jiko felt something he'd never experienced before: purpose. Not just survival or efficiency, but genuine purpose. He was part of something larger than himself, working toward a goal that would help millions of people.
His conscience told him this was right. His analytical mind confirmed it was feasible. And for the first time in his life, those two perspectives agreed completely.
It felt like coming home.
Outside the Den, in the darkness of the canyon, other forces were moving. The Choir Sanctum had noticed Korrin's defection and was mobilizing. The Iron Testimony was hunting their rogue general. And other factions, sensing major changes coming, were positioning themselves for whatever came next.
The world was about to change. Whether through Jiko's careful reprogramming or through violent upheaval remained to be seen.
But change was coming. Inevitable and unstoppable.
And at its center was a man who'd started as an empty shell and become something entirely new. Something that might just be humanity's best hope.
Or its final mistake.
Time would tell.